“All right,” the boy replied, in low, sad tones.
He leaned against the gate post with an oppressive feeling at heart and the gloomiest forebodings in his mind.
It almost seemed as if he had a subtle premonition of his fate.
Murdock entered the grounds and stole away in the shrubbery.
He came to a pause and listened intently, then keenly peered around without hearing or seeing anybody.
The wretch was intensely excited and as pale as death, while upon his brow there stood great beads of perspiration.
He fully realized what he was going to do.
There was not an extenuating thing to excuse him.
From where he crouched he could plainly see the boy.
He drew a revolver from his hip-pocket, his hand shaking as if palsied, and deliberately aimed at the poor boy.